


Parallels

by mikhailosbitch



Series: I miss you [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gallavich Week, Gallavich Week 2017, Love, M/M, Mexico, Post Season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 03:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikhailosbitch/pseuds/mikhailosbitch
Summary: He's under his skin, man. The fuck can he do?Mickey is in Mexico and misses Ian. Angst with a happy end





	Parallels

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!  
> My work for Gallavich Week B 2017 Day 6 - Mexico. This is the counterpiece to my fic "Memories".  
> I hope you guys enjoy it!

The bar is a dingy shithole with sticky glasses and broken bar stools but it sells booze. That’s what matters. Plus, this dump is such a lowlife venue that Mickey is pretty sure it scares even the most ambitious cop away. Too much work to arrest 90 percent of the guests.

The tiny bartender waves her boobs in his face when she places his drink in front of him. Bitch probably hopes for a good tip. She can go fuck herself.

While he nurses his Jack Daniel’s, Mickey’s eyes dart around the gloomy room. He’s drunk.

But not enough to miss the bartender giving one of the other fuck-ups sitting at the counter a glass.

The first thing he thinks is why the fuck does this bar serve orange juice but it is quickly pushed away the memory of a chuckling voice telling him “And all he said was ‘Jack Daniel’s and orange juice mix better than I would’ve imagined.’”

“You okay?” He blinks. The bartender is staring at him. She sounds worried. Mickey looks down and finds his hands smeared with blood and alcohol. He broke his glass.

 

 

It is late, around 3am, when Mickey steps outside. He can’t sleep and needs a walk to lose some tension. The Mexican summer is a little more bearable during the night but it’s still hot as fuck and Mickey feels like he’s dripping with sweat when he comes across a small convenience store.

It’s all dark and closed now but there are posters plastered over the dirty window, announcing special offers and the store has a red marquise with the store name.

It reminds him of his first hideaway from his home. Or better, the first hideaway where he felt safe.

Mickey doesn’t fell like walking anymore. Rather like curling up in a ball and disappearing.

 

 

He is on his way home from work when he sees a group of soldiers on the other side of the street. They are in full on camouflage look and the sight is so familiar that he could puke.

He remembers pulling a beige army shirt off a toned torso. Fingers fumbling with the zipper of camo pants, pushing down annoying fabric.

Back in the day they would fuck with clothes on mostly, only sometimes risk taking off a shirt or a jacket. Pants stayed on and so did sneakers and combat boots.

That was a long time ago though.

Now, Mickey knows every inch of him without clothes. Remembers how every muscle feels under freckled skin. Every curve and move. Remembers green eyes, a shit-eating grin and long limbs wrapped around him. Safe.

He wipes his eyes with oil-stained fingers and takes a different route home.

 

 

Winter. Other than in Chicago, where you want to bath in a bucket with ice cubes during the summer and in embers when Christmas rolls around, there isn’t much of a difference in terms of temperature in Mexico. So it’s still pretty warm and once again Mickey can’t sleep. He slumps down in the old chair on his tiny balcony. Lights a cigarette. Looks up into the night that is really the beginning of a new day and sees an eagle. A big bald eagle flying over the roof.

It doesn’t have a rifle in his claws but that doesn’t matter. He remembers anyway.

And burns himself with the cigarette on purpose.

 

 

The money feels dirty.

It’s hidden in a drawer under the sink, a stack of bills. Filthy with help and love and fucking goodbye.

He didn’t want it. Needed it but didn’t want it.

It’s almost complete again and when it is Mickey will send it back.

Up until then, it’s here and dirty. Screams of almost-bank robberies, desert, road trips and red hair.

Makes _him_ scream in anger, disappointment, hopelessness. Makes him punch the bathroom mirror. Again. Only this time, there is no crumpled photo.

 

 

A woman comes to the auto-shop and wants her car fixed. She waits while Mickey examines the ratty thing, talks to her son in a language that can only be Russian. He’s never bothered to learn a single word but he must have picked up on some things because he can tell it’s definitely Russian and he has to go to the bathroom to press a hand to his mouth and just _lose_ it. For a minute.

The last time Mickey saw his son was during that one visit.

He wishes he would get another chance to meet him. If only to sort out how he feels about him. Because he doesn’t know.

 

 

Aside from the money there is one more thing that stayed from Ian.

A dark hoodie with a broken zipper, left on the backseat of a green car. It’s too big on Mickey but it’s warm. Wraps around him and makes him feel a little less cold. Safe. A little less alone.

He doesn’t wear it often. Only when he wakes up at the ass crack of dawn with Terry’s face haunting him or when he’s so drunk he can barely stand.

Mickey long cracked the burner phone, long got rid of the car. But the hoodie stays.

It’s dirty and has holes but it stays. Doesn’t leave like Ian always does.

 

 

He talks to Mandy. Every once in a while.

Right before his escape she had sent a cell number to prison and after a month in Mexico he had finally called.

Mickey is pretty sure she’s the only reason he hasn’t blown his brains out yet.

 

 

 

And one day, there is a knock on his door and it is Ian.

**Author's Note:**

> Well thank you so much for reading!  
> As always, any kind of feedback is very welcome.


End file.
